


An All Around Lovely Day

by babykid528



Category: The Time Traveler's Wife
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-28
Updated: 2009-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-05 10:24:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babykid528/pseuds/babykid528
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"We're having a lovely day in my present."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	An All Around Lovely Day

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** This was prompted by and written for [](http://commen-sense.livejournal.com/profile)[**commen_sense**](http://commen-sense.livejournal.com/) over at [](http://1297.livejournal.com/profile)[**1297**](http://1297.livejournal.com/)'s [Second Chances Fic Meme](http://1297.livejournal.com/18051.html). Her prompt can be found [here](http://1297.livejournal.com/18051.html?thread=1181827#t1181827). Some happy fluff to balance out the bittersweetness of the Jen/Brad and the downright sadness of the Jo/Laurie fics I also wrote this weekend. I hope you enjoy it, dear! &lt;3   
> Much thanks to [](http://b-dsaint.livejournal.com/profile)[**b_dsaint**](http://b-dsaint.livejournal.com/) and [](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/profile)[**karaokegal**](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/) for being my betas and helping me fix this thing up before posting it here. :-) &lt;333 I love them both dearly!
> 
> **Disclaimer:** The characters contained with belong to Ms. Niffenegger and her excellent debut novel.

_Saturday, September 28th, 1985 (Clare is 13, Henry is 39)_

 

HENRY: I'm in the Meadow again. Not far from the box of clothing, which contains a flannel hunting shirt, jeans, and an old pair of boots that have certainly seen better days. It's fall and the leaves are tumbling down from the vast oaks and birches in a flurry of colors around me. The scent of autumnal decay, of the crackling leaves and sweetly rotting apples is absolutely pungent. It must be late in picking season, the orchard bare from the harvest, aside from the over-ripened fruit lost to the tall grass and soil.

I am in the past. There is no doubt in my mind, because I do not feel the fogginess that always accompanies me as I foray into the future. I wonder if this date was on the list and if Clare will be waiting for me by the rock. How old will she be this time? There's only one way to find out.

I pull on the clothes and stumble along for a moment, adjusting to the nearly too-tight boots, as I make my way through the trees and bushes. Sure enough, Clare is waiting for me at the rock. Young and gangly looking, even in her coat and jeans. Definitely no more than fifteen.

"Henry." Her smile is positively luminous, her cheeks tinged pink with the cold, as her gloved hands rest atop her open Social Studies text.

"Hello, Clare."

Before I can even lower myself to the ground all the way, she's offering me a thermos and sandwich: hot, homemade cider and warm, oven-roasted chicken with gravy on white bread.

"Thank God for Nell," I sigh as I sniff the steaming thermos.

Clare watches me, grinning, as I wolf down my sandwich before I remember my manners.

"Thank you too, Clare."

She nods, blushing.

"What's the date this time?"

"September 28th, 1985. I'm thirteen," She answers dutifully. She knows the drill by now. "What year are you coming from?"

"2002," I answer her after swallowing down a large gulp of cider. "This is delicious."

"Thank God for Nell," she echoes my earlier sentiment cheekily.

I can't fight a grin from spreading across my features.

"You're in a _very_ good mood," she comments. Her own grin spreads into a full-blown smile. "It's nice. The last time you were here you weren't in such a good place."

I take another gulp of cider to keep myself from divulging the reason for my glee: It would be so easy to tell her right now how in my time our baby's just spoken her first word (dada), how it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard, how we'd both cried and laughed at the kitchen table when it happened and kissed her face and stomach until Alba was a pile of giggles herself. But it would be wrong to rob her of the pure shock in that the moment, so I suck down the rest of my cider before responding.

"We're having a lovely day in my present."

She frowns slightly before sincerely apologizing, "I'm sorry you're missing the rest of it then." Her eyes widen before she continues in a flurry of words, "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm glad to have you here whenever I can. Even when you're not as happy as today. There isn't a moment when I don't want you here. But I am sorry to take you away from future me."

Clare's so adorable when she babbles at me like this. It's something she grew out of after her awkward tween years and I'm glad I get to experience it this way.

I smile at her reassuringly. "It's alright. I'm spending the rest of my day with you either way, aren't I?"

Clare's smile returns. "Yes, I suppose you are… Want to quiz me on the French and Indian War?"

"I'd be delighted," I respond with a dramatic bow of my head, garnering a laugh, as I take her offered textbook. We spend the next hour going over dates, names, and battle statistics with the cool breeze nipping at our cheeks.

 

  
.  
.  
.  
_Sunday, April 14th, 2002 (Clare is 30, Henry is 39)_

 

CLARE: Henry disappears just as we finished lunch, stranding me with the dishes and a babbling Alba. I carefully fold his clothing and place them on the couch before turning back to our daughter.

"I swear your daddy plans these disappearances sometimes, to get out of things like dish duty," I coo at Alba who promptly starts reciting "Dada Dada Dada" before breaking out into a fit of giggles.

I turn back to the sink, soaping up the sponge, getting down to business, and trying not to worry too much about where Henry's gone off to. I hope wherever he is, he's safe. I always hope he's with me in the Meadow.

When the dishes are done and Alba's worn herself out, chanting for Henry and laughing at the sound of her own voice, I put her down for her afternoon nap and settle into the couch to read some Tolstoy. I drift off as easily as Alba did.

***

I awaken to the sound of clothes rustling before the couch dips near my feet. I open my eyes to see Henry, my Henry, once more returned to me. He's curling against my side, wrapping his arms around me and kissing my temple.

"How long have I been gone?" he asks on a whisper.

I look towards the wall clock, squinting. "Only two hours."

"I was with you in the Meadow. You were thirteen and I was helping you study the French and Indian War," he supplies, snuggling his cheek against mine. His face and hands are cold.

"Late September," I recall, relaxing against him. "The twenty-eighth?"

I feel him grin lazily against my neck.

"How do you remember the date?" he mumbles, voice filled with mirth.

I sigh, happily, "You were so happy that visit… And I failed my exam that following Monday."

He startles, lifting his head to look me in the eyes incredulously. "You failed?!"

I grin sheepishly, "Yeah."

"But you were answering all the questions right?"

I'm blushing now. "I know. The test wasn't actually on the French and Indian War. It was on The War of 1812."

Henry's brow scrunches. He looks bewildered. "Why would you have me quiz you on the French &amp; Indian War then?"

"Because I knew everything about it. I'd just written a paper on it." I admit, face completely red. "I wanted to impress you."

Henry responds with such a booming laugh that I'm surprised Alba's not awakened by it and screaming. It takes him minutes to calm down so he can breath again.

"Oh, Clare," he breathes out in a gust, eyes dancing with residual mirth. "All you have to do is smile at me, look at me, hell, exist even. You're here with me. That's impressive enough."

I'm overcome with a flush of warmth, as if I weren't blushing enough. I squeeze Henry more tightly to me for a few moments before he extracts himself from my arms, exiting the room.

"What're you doing?" I ask after him, amused and intrigued.

He calls softly from the adjoining room, "I'm doing a redo."

When he returns to me, he's carrying a book. He drops back down onto the couch and thumbs it open to a specific page, glancing at me before he recites:

_The tensions that caused the War of 1812 arose from the French revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars (1792–1815). During this nearly constant conflict between France and Britain, American interests were injured by each of the two countries' endeavours to block the United States from trading with the other..._

I laugh so hard, it wakes Alba.

 

 

 

Comments are love! &lt;333


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